Fort Robinson (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series)

by Roy F. Chandler

  If The Warrior were the sought-for leader, The Knife would seek him out and place his scheme in council. Perhaps the time of the Indian had come again.

  Chapter 32

  The fighter called The Warrior stood alone on a granite outcrop overlooking the wind- churned waters of Lake Huron. Although half-rotted snow lay in sheltered spots and bitter wind blew directly from the water, The Warrior wore only clout and moccasins. Iron tomahawks lay against each hip, and a knife hung to his right side as though grown in place.

  The Warrior stood a head taller than the tallest of his race, and awesome power sculptured into a magnificently muscled body lent him bearing larger than life.

  Head thrown slightly back, his features masked by contrasting paint, The Warrior poised motionless, allowing his thoughts to soar far beyond the waters to the spirit land of the Great Father. If the raw wind lashed, he ignored its cut, allowing his spirit to grow and roam unhampered by physical bounds.

  Often, he had waited, exposed and unflinching, and each time the Manitou had chosen his new path. Once, he had competed in all contests, but unremitting effort had developed his body into corded muscle that writhed with every movement, and intense concentration had increased his skills until he knew no serious competition. Victories became too easy.

  In the early times he had been turned against the Cherokee, the Dakota, and the Chippewas. He bore scars of countless combats. He had killed enemy and counted coups beyond memory, and in time those tasks had also proven too small. Finally, he had been turned to the setting sun and the journey had been long, but in time that land had ended and he had returned to the place of his fathers.

  Since his return, The Warrior had listened to the counsel of the sachems. They spoke of many things, but all seemed small and beneath notice.

  Often they spoke of the Delaware and Shawnee at war with the pale men, and they wondered if they too should take up the hatchet. Though they talked long, they decided nothing.

  The Warrior waited unmoving as the moon rode the skies, and a vision began like a small wave lapping against his mind. The wave grew into a surging torrent, and he saw a white bird, tiny in the distance, gliding directly toward him. The bird grew as it closed until only its whiteness remained, seeming to envelop him.

  He staggered slightly, opening his mind to a morning sun striking his stronger side. He shook-free cramped muscles and squatted, gazing at the cold lake water in thought.

  The white bird surely meant the white men. Beyond that, the message was not clear. So, he would go among the whites; he would go as fish might swim in the lake. The fish were there, but the water could not harm them.

  Perhaps great honor and service to his people lay in warring with the whites. The Warrior faced the south, feeling the sun touch his other side. He would travel to where the river Ohio was born. There he would turn to the rising sun and find the white-skinned men.

  The Warrior stretched smoothly in the manner he had copied from the panther. Muscle knotted and writhed. He dropped lightly from his lofty prominence and slid smoothly into a long striding run that effortlessly devoured the rough ground. He secured no provisions or red blanket. He told no one his destination. He sought no companions. The Great Spirit had spoken and shown the way. The Warrior loped into the forest heading for the lands of the whites many marches to the south.

  There were villages and separate lodges along his route. When he hungered, The Warrior entered a lodge and was fed. He slept sitting erect with crossed legs, impervious to bitter cold or lodge warmth. If he had desired a blanket or a maiden he would have taken them, and the lodge would have been honored. A pointed finger hurried fearful yet thrilled squaws to renew his paint or mend a moccasin.

  The Warrior rarely spoke, for his mind lived often in the spirit world, and men had little to say that interested him. The cold distance of his gaze chilled attempts to engage him in conversation, and even the most seasoned warriors experienced twinges of uncertainty in his presence.

  Yet, on a bitter night, as he slept by their fire, an ancient squaw draped a fire-warmed blanket about The Warrior's shoulders. He spoke softly, eyes remaining closed, "Thank you, good mother." His words were Onandega.

  A brash youth seeking recognition spoke snidely as The Warrior passed. The youth was many hours regaining his senses, and his broken jaw knitted poorly.

  Yet small children climbed upon The Warrior and huddled close as though he were a favored uncle. His touch then was gentle and men marveled, knowing the instant death those same hands had often granted.

  He came to a village of Shawnee where a white captive was held. Naked and scrawny from starvation and injury, the white glared hatred and promised death to his tormentor. The Warrior observed with interest that the heart of the white had proven brave. Later, the white escaped by leaping into the swift river. Intrigued, The Warrior remained close to the fleeing white, reveling in the man's courage, and watching the Shawnee lose their search.

  The white traveled to the sun, struggling through the winter forests. When he faltered, The Warrior made his presence known by gifts of cooked squirrel, and the white reached and passed the mountain called Tuscarora.

  There, The Warrior paused to again seek guidance from the Great Spirit. For the special meeting he chose an open glade on the mountain summit. He knelt facing from where the sun rose. He placed his hands palm up on his thighs, straightened his body, and allowed thoughts to form as they willed behind his closed eyes.

  The pictures were many. They appeared and fled, old memories of happenings long past. Finally, the sustained courage of the white in the face of almost certain death touched his mind and remained. If other whites possessed the same heart, perhaps there would be honor in facing them in battle.

  The Great Spirit provided no answer, but visions of the crumpled valley lying beyond the Tuscarora swelled and filled his mind. He had been long away, but once he had known the valley well.

  There at the lodge of E'shan he had named Quehana, who made the magic arrow points. Perhaps the valley held his answer.

  He rose, serpent-smooth despite long kneeling. He completed panther stretches and tensionings methodically and thoroughly, for they tuned and conditioned his body. Then he trotted easily down the steep mountain ridge into Sherman's Valley.

  The valley stunk of war and desolation. Whites had hacked stump-speckled fields along many creeks, and their burned cabins dotted the valleys. He saw horses and hogs loose in the forests and strange birds that could barely fly. A thrown tomahawk killed one of the cackling birds. He made fire by striking his small flint with his knife and cooked and ate the bird.

  There were dead scattered about, most in the mounded graves apparently favored by whites. Those had medicine stones with strange markings. The Warrior studied them, but the pictures were strange. Other dead lay unburied within forests. Often they had fallen close to the old trails. Most were white, and some had lain for many seasons.

  The Warrior found no living whites and rested for the night along the Big Buffalo. Before dawn he turned toward the Deer Spring.

  A young white man chopped firewood at a crude cabin, his gun placed close to hand. The Warrior moved silently as death until he stood directly behind the white. When the man paused, he reached out counting powerful coup by touching his enemy on the back.

  Turning, the white leaped a startled step. The Warrior saw terror claim him, and fear rolled the white's eyes into his head, and he fell to the earth unconscious. Appalled, The Warrior stared. Except for the movement of breathing, the white might be dead. The stench of released bowels rose from the white, and The Warrior turned away in disgust.

  Nearby, another cabin appeared occupied. Listening against a wall, The Warrior heard breathing within. Drawing a hatchet he sprang inside, but no figures rose to challenge him. The stench of excrement, sweat, and vomit was stifling. Figures lay beneath blankets, and snatching one away he saw sickness close unto death. The wasted body barely responded to the blanket's removal, and clo
uded eyes could not focus. The Warrior replaced the fouled blanket and left the cabin, sucking huge lung fulls of clean air to clear away the foulness.

  Above the Deer Spring a mighty fort guarded by many declared the power of the whites. In evening dusk The Warrior stood among the trees seeing watchers at the walls and hearing the noise of an entire village within. Whites were louder in their activities, but there was both laughter and disagreement in their voices. Children were unruly and many cried at once. Occasionally, the smell of the place came to him, and he marveled that men would live there.

  Barring entrance, the wall of the fort reared high beyond a ditch. When the sky darkened before the moon rose, The Warrior came close under the wall and listened to the watcher's footsteps turn away. He drew back to gain a run. Then, in full stride, he leaped high across the ditch, striking the log wall with one foot and grasping the top edge with one hand.

  He drew himself up until he could see into the fort. The unsuspecting watcher dawdled well away, while within, a multitude of whites moved about a single, central fire. There were many men, but their muskets were not carried, and he saw no bows. Feather-light, the killer muscled himself over the wall onto the watcher's platform. No eyes turned upward, and he reached the watcher in a few silent bounds.

  He caught the man at the throat cutting off any cry of alarm. His second hand plucked the musket from limp fingers lest it fall. He raised the white from his toes, holding him dangling and close where he could look into his eyes. He saw stark fear turn to resignation and felt no resistance in the white's slack body.

  The Warrior's mind struggled to accept the white man's surrender. An Indian would have fought with his feet and nails while breath remained. His body would have been bowstring taut, and his eyes would have screamed defiance.

  He released the white allowing him to slump against the wall dragging air into half-starved lungs. He forced the musket into the white's lax grasp and still saw no hint of resistance. The white stayed slumped and helpless against the parapet, unwilling even to warn his village.

  Below, the whites milled like pond ducks, their quackings unchanged. Almost in desperation The Warrior grasped the white's scalp and threatened it with his knife. The white whimpered softly and sagged completely.

  The warrior gazed for a moment at the whites in utter contempt. Then he vaulted into the darkness hearing the watcher vomit in a violent gush onto his own feet.

  He was well into the woods when a musket thumped, followed by great shouting. Later more shots were fired into the darkness, and The Warrior, far beyond range, could only wonder at what they shot.

  During the night, The Warrior pondered his experiences, but he could find no answers. Perhaps the Great Spirit wished merely to show him that the whites were not his concern. Yet he had traveled far and believed a greater reason must exist.

  He recrossed the Tuscarora and in five days reached the river called Allegheny. A small fever touched him, and he dedicated it to the Manitou and welcomed the challenge of its discomfort.

  In two days the fever had swelled, causing mighty sweats and bone wracking chills. His joints ached unceasingly, and his lungs labored at even a slow walk. That day he vomited a sickly black and chose to eat no more.

  A silent grove of tall pines attracted him. He selected a sheltered spot within, and because of his fever, leaned against a tree bole. His sight blurred and cleared, only to blur again. His body shuddered with cold or steeped with inward fires.

  He remembered then the sickness of the whites in the cabin. This then must be the Great Spirit's reason for his journey. Perhaps this was his final testing-a purification to strain his will and his body, perhaps unto death itself.

  The Warrior's mind thrilled at the contest. He forced himself erect, turning his palms upward. He raised his chin facing the Sky God who might soon appear.

  During the night his breathing shallowed, and without his knowing, his body slumped to the tree and his chin rested on the laxed muscles of his mighty chest. Before dawn his hands fell from his thighs, and The Warrior's great body sagged, growing ever smaller in final death.

  Chapter 33

  George and Robert Robinson met with Lieutenant Colonel John Armstrong, provincial officer, and Colonel Henry Bouquet, royal commission. Bouquet and Armstrong were Masons. The common bond made things easier.

  Bouquet had about taken over Carlisle. He had established camps for his regiments and commandeered meadows for forage and grazing.

  When farmers of Berks and Lancaster counties failed to honor his requests for wagons, he simply took them.

  Bouquet ordered powder, pork, and shoes by the wagonload and hundred pairs. He realigned companies and reassigned officers to suit his needs. The Robinsons were impressed.

  Bouquet was a man of middle years. Short and solid in body, only his eyes betrayed the intelligence that enabled him to succeed despite the fumblings of Philadelphia and the stubborn resistance of stolid German farmers who feared loss through hiring their wagons or lending their brawn. German vision rarely exceeded their plantation borders, and if Scots died on frontiers, well . . . "Home they should have stayed!"

  Bouquet intended to capture Fort Duquesne at the forks of the Ohio. Then he intended to hold the forks and break the French hold on the Shawnee and Delaware.

  To accomplish this not inconsiderable task, Bouquet needed a road over which to march his army and transport his supplies. From Carlisle he would push west. By re-supplying Forts Littleton and Loudon, he would keep his army fresh, but the route to those forts was still being evaluated.

  The most commonly used route lay through Shippensburg, but George Croghan, who knew the frontier, spoke well of the Sherman's Valley route. Personally unfamiliar with the mountains, Bouquet called in men who knew. The Robinsons were among them.

  — — —

  Every time anybody got ready to march west, they hauled half the frontier back to Carlisle to jaw about it, George thought. Besides Bouquet and Armstrong, he saw Alex Logan and George McCord. Rob Shatto stood in the shadows. His presence was significant because the young frontiersman rarely came south of the mountain.

  To Robert, the meeting seemed a lot like the one they'd had at the Carlisle fort before Kittanning, only this time he would not be making the march. Robert could tell that George was worried about being gone from their fort even this long, and if Bouquet didn't get his meeting going, George was liable to pick up his gun and start for home.

  War parties were still haunting Sherman's Valley, and it seemed as if everybody forted up about every other week while they waited out the latest scare. Mostly, the hostiles turned out to be a few braves making a hit and run raid, but there was no telling when a big party might come down on them. Robert supposed they were all a little surprised it hadn't happened already.

  When he was ready, Bouquet presented his consideration of bringing his army across Kittatinny Mountain, through Sherman's Valley by the old Indian trail and into the Path Valley through Bigham's Gap.

  Most of the talk centered on getting wagons over the mountain. Once across, they would roll relatively unhindered past Robinson's, through the gap in Tuscarora, and on to Fort Littleton. Bouquet felt the mountain road could be improved while he was based at Carlisle. In so doing, he could be certain it was ready when he marched.

  The north valley men liked the route. The Robinsons recognized the profit to them in having the road dramatically improved, and Bouquet spoke of using their fort as a supply point during the army's passage.

  Still, doubts nagged, and despite vigorous enthusiasm, George was prepared to voice his reservations when Shatto started for him.

  Shatto was young for such company, but looming a head taller with shoulders straining his Delaware hunting shirt, he gained immediate attention. Shatto remained in the shadows near the wall, leaning almost negligently on his longrifle, but he spoke directly to Bouquet.

  "Colonel, if you are figuring to march across Kittatinny, there is more than just the road t
o worry about."

  Armstrong identified Shatto to Bouquet from behind his hand, and sitting near, the Robinsons saw the officer become more intent. Plainly he had been told about the young frontiersman. Bouquet's voice was courteous and interested.

  "I see, Mr. Shatto, and what would you bring to our attention?"

  "Only a point or two, Colonel. First off, I'd like to say that re-enforcing Robinson's fort would be a proper move and should have been done two years ago. The reason being that there isn't a soldier or provincial building anywhere between Kittatinny and Tuscarora Mountain-meaning the whole of Sherman's Valley is laying bare. That's how come war parties have cleared the valley excepting Robinsons'.

  "Now, I am familiar with Indian ways and this is how I believe the hostiles will act. When your army marches through, they will lay back and just pick off any stragglers or careless foragers.

  "When your wagons move across they will seem mighty attractive, and you will need strong companies to protect them. Seeing you will be bringing in hundreds of wagons, your column will be strung out for many miles in that rolling hill country. I'm doubting your whole army can bring them through without serious losses."

  Shatto paused, and Robert saw Bouquet turn toward Armstrong whose pursed lips gave weight to the frontiersman's thoughts.

  "Bad as that sounds, worse would be the attacks on your line of supply once the army moved on. If a strong force of Indians got to holding out in Sherman's Valley, they would raise hob with anything traveling our new path."

  George chose to join in, "Much as we would like seeing you come our way, I'm afraid Shatto is right, Colonel. We have no strength beyond our fort's walls, and those valleys twist like a den of snakes. Routing out war parties would demand a lot of people and a lot of time. Keeping them out would be even worse.